A Little Carried Away
by 9mm Meg
Summary: Francis is having a hard time coaxing a decent love scene from his leading actors, but Alfred and Arthur manage to deliver a better take than he'd hoped for when left to their own direction. USUK, AU, old KM de-anon


**A/N:** This is a KM de-anon from forevars ago that I totally forgot about. Prompt: "Alfred and Arthur are actors performing a rather heated sex scene for a movie. They, however, get completely carried away, making everyone filming the scene a little hot under the collar."

After a long period of not having time to write, then _getting_ time to write but also getting writer's block along with it, and, finally, two weeks in London to drive writing completely from my head, I've decided to just post _anything_ to get back in the groove. We'll see how this works out.

Jack and Oliver are Alfred and Arthur's characters' names respectively, just to forestall any confusion there. And for the record, I don't know a thing about acting or filmmaking. I'm sure it will be obvious, but have a heads-up anyway. Also, overused movie storyline is overused :D

* * *

"Oh—_oh_, oh there, love… Yes…"

Green eyes meet smoldering blue, and Oliver can't help but moan again at the utterly _lustful_ look Jack is giving him as his hands—

"_CUT!_ CUT CUT _CUT!_"

Both actors groan and roll their eyes, and Francis resists the urge to toss his folding director's chair at the two of them. As temporarily satisfying as that would be, it's highly unlikely that it would do any favors for their already abysmal performance.

"Christ, Francis! What the devil is it this time?" Arthur seethes, pushing Alfred off of him as the make-up artists swoop in for touch-ups. "First it was the lighting, then it was the wardrobe, then it was your coffee and the bleeding score that hasn't even been written yet… What now? And mind you watch where you're powdering, Feliks!"

"Is this gonna take a while?" Alfred pipes up hopefully. "'Cause I'm totally starving right now. In fact, snag me a donut or five while you're over there, Toris." He flops back against the mattress, oblivious to the set dresser's German swearing over the ruin of his meticulously arranged bed.

Francis pulls at his hair in frustration. Of course he knows what the problem is, but he can't bring himself to admit that the softer light, near-complete elimination of clothing, his alcohol-laced coffee—_nothing_ can mask the fact that his heretofore award-guaranteed stars are behaving more like nervous teenagers than passionate lovers.

Where is that spark, that chemistry that he could feel lurking just below the surface when he first casted them? Their first kiss during filming two weeks before had had such fire, such passion, and now, for the oh-so critical love scene, they've fallen apart. Granted, they're not _completely_ awful (a little flat) but it's just not _right_. It could be so much more, and despite all his (incredibly) extensive knowledge and experience in matters of _l'amour_, he just can't seem to put his finger on what's holding them back.

Lost for any sort of direction to give his floundering cast, he watches distractedly as Arthur leans over with no small amount of irritation and brushes a smudge of donut-borne chocolate and sprinkle from Alfred's face… but then Francis collapses into his chair with a dramatic groan after the two of them suddenly blush and find incredibly interesting other things to look at in opposite directions.

Perhaps it's time for some outside intervention, he decides. After all, the situation is quickly becoming desperate.

"Someone… I don't care who does it, just go and bring me Elizabeta."

* * *

Francis would have slapped himself were it not for fear of damaging such an exquisite work of art as his own face. The answer was so obvious! How could he have missed it? (It must have been the alcohol-laced coffee…)

His screenwriter, genius that she is, had spotted the issue almost instantly after arriving on set, and now she's furiously scribbling notes all over a copy of the script, scratching out lines here and adding bits there for scenes they won't film for weeks.

"This is just fantastic," Elizabeta says, re-reading a portion. "I _knew_ the two of them were perfect before, but the fact that they're actually falling for each other is going to do wonders for us, Francis."

He gives her a grin of agreement, impatiently tapping his fingers as he waits for the majority of the crew to exit the soundstage. Once he'd realized just what was keeping him from a perfect take, he'd immediately started barking out orders, and then sent everyone non-essential to the scene away.

It should have been clear, what with the way Alfred and Arthur had been skirting around each other for the past week or so on set, but now… _now_ he's going to get the performance he's after.

Finally, they're left with the bare bones of the crew, plus Elizabeta (it will be easier for his stars with less of an audience, he thinks), and Francis calls the two actors over.

"Alright, _m__es chéris_," he says, motioning for them to have a seat on the set. "Since you're back in your uniforms, you can see that we are going to take this from the top. Elizabeta has done some last-minute rewrites, so we will be taking a different approach for the scene this time."

"Rewrites?" Arthur asks, straightening his tie. "Where's the new script then?"

Francis smiles. "There isn't one," he says, then holds up his hands before they can protest. "Now listen to me:

"Jack and Oliver have spent all these long weeks in hospital together, but so far from each other. You've been stealing looks, longing silently to yourselves, too afraid to reach out to one another. But then the order comes, and Jack is to ship off for the South Pacific in the morning, and Oliver to Italy. Suddenly there is no more time to wait, and, faced with the possibility of never seeing each other again, the two of you find yourselves acting upon your repressed desires." (Francis thinks back to the rapturous first kiss shoot.)

Alfred and Arthur nod, and Francis is pleased to see that they've unconsciously scooted a little closer to one another, hands resting on the bed linens nearly close enough to touch. He keeps his gleeful grin in check and continues.

"Which brings us to this scene. Oliver, you've brought Jack back to your room, and this is your final chance to tell him how you feel… So remember: this could very well be the end for you. Do make it count."

Francis stands and claps sharply, calling, "Places! Places, everyone! We begin at the top!"

As he settles into his chair, Alfred and Arthur disappear into the 'hallway' outside of Oliver's room on set, and within a few moments, everyone is at the ready. With an excited glance from Elizabeta, Francis takes a deep breath.

"Action!"

* * *

Once they're both safely in, Oliver takes a nervous breath and locks the door, bracing himself against it for a moment. He knows exactly what he'd been thinking of, bringing Jack back here, but now that it's come down to it, he's not sure how to even proceed. He can still feel those chapped lips on his, from that first kiss outside the on-base dance and another, soft and sweet and far too brief, stolen just seconds ago in the corridor outside, and he's desperate to have them back.

But there's more to this than just the physical, isn't there? Oliver knows this, and Jack had made it plain, whispered against his ear earlier, _I love you, I've always loved you_… and now, Oliver knows he must do the same before their chance is gone.

He turns, determined to say precisely how he feels, but Jack is so close, watching him and waiting, blue eyes wide and concerned, questioning behind wire frames… and suddenly, he can't find the words.

Instead, Oliver pulls him close, kissing him soundly. It doesn't take long before Jack's reciprocating, and they're stumbling backwards and bumping into the wall. Jack leans against it, and Oliver presses against him, doing his utmost to lose himself in the smell of Jack's cologne, the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue.

Soon, the kissing just isn't enough, and both of them gasp as their hips shift just so… Oliver can feel Jack's heart racing next to his own, and he fights himself to pull away, just for a moment, just long enough to say what needs to be said. But as soon as he does, Jack's mouth is at his neck, all lips and tongue and a hint of teeth, and whatever he was trying to tell him dissolves into a strangled noise in the back of his throat. A hand slides up his chest, loosens his tie, unbuttons his collar, and Oliver's struggling for air as Jack pulls them flush together and drags his lips up his jawline to his ear.

"I love you," Jack breathes, and—and Oliver hesitates again, cursing himself mentally as he turns his head to bring their mouths back together. It shouldn't be so difficult, but when Jack lets out a low, muffled whine as Oliver slides his tongue over his bottom lip, he starts to wonder if simple words could ever be enough anyway… so maybe he'll just have to _show_ him…

Oliver manages to pull away a second time and catches Jack's eyes (oh, he should say it now—but he just can't), then gives a meaningful glance towards the bed behind them. There's a tense second and a half before those blue eyes widen in comprehension, but then Jack pushes off the wall, Oliver dragging him by his tie as Jack starts pulling at his uniform jacket.

The room's not large in any sense (the only reason Oliver's got private quarters in the first place is thanks to his status as an officer), but in the few moments it takes to cross over to the bed, two jackets, a shirt, both ties, and a belt have accumulated on the floor. They tumble onto the far-too-small mattress, and Oliver looks down at Jack, glasses askew on his nose and button down hanging off his broad shoulders, face flushed and expression full of longing and blatant adoration. He makes it seem so easy… and Oliver finds himself mumbling, "Jack… Jack, I—" before he bites his lip in frustration and ducks down to press his mouth to the chest beneath him.

The slow drag of his tongue over a collarbone earns him a quiet hum of appreciation, so he moves lower, mouthing a nipple and sending Jack's hips bucking up into his—and _Christ_ they've waited much too long for this.

He leaves one last open-mouthed kiss on the skin in front of him, then pulls back to reach down and unfasten the button of Jack's trousers.

"_Shit_," Jack hisses as he palms him through the thin fabric of his boxers. "ShitshitshitArth—Oliver…" His control is slipping, and the way he looks up at him with those half-lidded, half-focused eyes is enough to leave Oliver's in question as well.

But when one of those broad hands finds its way beneath his own waistband and wraps around him, warm and rough, and _squeezes_… suddenly control is the furthest thing from his short-circuiting mind.

He's bent down again before he realizes it, kisses giving way to just gasping against Jack's—_oh, fuck pretending_, Arthur thinks—_Alfred's_ mouth as they both fumble with their pants and tug them down just far enough to be out of the way. There's a sudden flip, and as soon as he registers Alfred hovering above him, their hips are pressed together, and he lets out a long, low moan. Teeth gently catch his ear, and then Alfred's whispering to him again, panting quietly into his ear as they grind against each other.

"Arthur… Oh God, Arthur…"

It's all Arthur can do to wrap his legs around Alfred and arch up into him. He's only vaguely aware that he's moaning Alfred's name with every ragged breath—but then it doesn't matter because Alfred's hand is back, wrapped around them both and making the friction nearly unbearable. Arthur grabs at the sheets, scrapes across Alfred's back, holding onto anything he can reach as it's building, building, building…

Alfred turns his head, crushes his lips against Arthur's, and it's finally too much. He comes with a gasp, digging his fingers into thick blond hair as Alfred groans moments later and follows him over the edge, then all but collapses on top of him.

They lie still for a few seconds, panting and trying to catch their breaths. Arthur's head is swimming, but the haze of his orgasm isn't quite tuning out this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like he's forgotten something important. But Alfred shifts above him, leaning back to let lazy blue eyes meet his own.

He's told Arthur several times now that he loves him, that he has always loved him, and now his eyes are saying it again without a word.

There's one piece missing, though, and as Alfred bends down to kiss him, Arthur finds his voice.

"And I will always love you," he says, then closes the distance between them.

* * *

"CUT! _C'est magnifique!_"

"OH MY GOD THAT WAS AMAZING!"

Francis jumps from his chair and catches Elizabeta as she launches herself at him, twirling them both around before setting her down. She stops to fan herself with a copy of the script, but then dissolves into nervous giggles and blurts out, "Ladiesroomexcuseme!" before taking off through a side door.

"_Mes chéris_, that was just perfect!" Francis cries, turning back to the set.

… Ah.

Alfred and Arthur haven't moved from their compromising position, other than to break that marvelous kiss and stare at each other with horrified eyes. Alfred is blushing, of course, but Francis watches with amusement as Arthur's face goes from white as the sheet beneath him to pink, then straight through every shade of red possible before settling somewhere in the purple range. Sensing danger, Francis quickly moves back behind his chair and ducks as a prop alarm clock comes flying at his head.

"_Je ne regrette rien!_" he calls, then takes cover as a lamp smashes on the concrete floor behind him. "There is no reason to be angry, Arthur! That performance was inspired!"

There's no answer, so Francis cautiously pokes his head around the side of the chair. Arthur is still very magenta, but he seems to be at a loss for words (and objects to launch as makeshift missiles), and, realizing his state of undress and rather sticky stomach, allows Alfred to toss a blanket over his shoulders and steer him off the set with a nervous laugh and a, "Sorry! Got carried away! We'll just be going now…"

That could have been worse, Francis thinks to himself, and switches on his megaphone. "One hour, everyone," he announces, "and then we will come back for more angles—"

"WHAT?" comes a shout from the doorway. Arthur's turned back around, glaring across the set with Alfred holding him back, though giving him an incredulous look himself.

"You expect us," he gapes, "to—to—_do_ _that_ again?"

"_Oui_," he says with a smile. "Of course. I'm sure Kiku got some lovely close-ups—" (the red-faced camera operator gives him a thumbs-up and adjusts the bloody tissue at his nose) "—however, we still need more wide shots. And, Arthur, we'll need to ensure that you moan 'Jack' instead of 'Alfred' next time. You _do_ understand…"

Arthur bristles, but before Francis can run to safety, he turns on his heel and storms out of the soundstage, dragging Alfred behind him.

"Ah, _l'amour_," Francis sighs, then calls, "One hour! Oh, and someone do check on Elizabeta. She's likely passed out in the restroom."

* * *

**A/N: **This is a quick question for those of you that are following my other fic, **Meant t****o** **Be** (all others may ignore this shameless other-fic-promoting and carry on as they were): As I said in my above A/N, I've had a horrible time trying to write in the past month or so, and I've been trying to think of ways to keep myself engaged in the fic. I've noticed that quite a few fanfic authors out there are doing Ask Blogs, and that seems to me like a decent way to keep it going, so...

The question is, were I to start an Ask Blog for the LIMS/MTB AU, would anyone be interested? (And, y'know, actually ask questions?)

Let me know what you think, pretty please...

(Granted, I'm fairly clueless when it comes to Tumblr, so this would also be a learning exercise for me ^_^)


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